


The problems of immortality

by AngelynMoon



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Immortality, M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:06:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25005133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelynMoon/pseuds/AngelynMoon
Summary: There are some downsides to immortality.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Xander Harris/Spike
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	The problems of immortality

Part one: never ageing.

He's never felt older as he downs another drink. He doesn't know just how long it's been only that it's been a while.

He recognises none of the faces, why should he, another decade or two and they'll all be brand new again.

Different faces with too bright brown eyes and sparkling blue.

There haven't been red heads in more than a century but there are fewer and fewer blondes, soon enough there won't be any of them left, and blue eyes will go with them.

He hears a laugh that makes his head jerk up and then fall back to gaze at his glass when he sees that it came from a boy with too dark hair and too bright eyes, one too many eyes for the man he was remembering.

Spike downs his drink and calls for another.

He leaves after, running down the sign that does not bare the name of the town that was once built on a Hellmouth, there aren't any Hellmouths anymore, and none remember them, just him.

Part two: keeping up with what's in.

His clothes are out dated, they were centuries ago but he was fine with that then, before the girls had dragged him to get new clothes, and only the little Bit's eyes had made him actually wear them.

When the others had eventually left him behind he'd stolen some things from them, a pair of socks from Red, a pair earnings from the Slayer, Peaches' best shoes, the Watcher's glasses and one of his stupid tweed jackets, and the Zeppo's annoying Hawaiian shirts, some, the ones he wore the least still smelled faintly of the boy and he almost dreaded the day the scent finally faded.

He got looks but no one dared say a word to him, not the baby Slayers or anyone else.

Some days Spike wished they would, wished they weren't in awe of him, he was the oldest Vampire left alive, and he would be for a time yet.

Part three: linguistical drift.

He hadn't noticed it at first, only noticed it when he'd returned after a decade hiding out where he'd once followed his Sire's Gift across the sands of a continent, where they had learned to trust one another, where they had finally been able to admit to more than friends.

He almost hadn't bothered relearning the language, why should he? He was a Master Vampire and these little Slayers had no idea.

But learn he did, because he couldn't let the children forget, couldn't not tell the children the stories of his Slayer and her Scoobies, she may not have been his one love but she was still his, the one Slayer he hadn't been able to kill.

Part four: slang.

He hated the way the kids spoke these days, half of it made no sense and the other half was just a hodgepodge of letters strung together, but it meant something to them and so he tried but he never could quite grasp the meanings.

It made him miss his Boy, made his unbeating heart ache with his absence, the silence drowning him even when he was surrounded by noise.

Part five: people.

The people changed, they always did, century after century, not just the way they dressed or spoke, but the way their faces were structured, their builds.

Their eyes changed, blue and green eyes fading away until people only knew about them through photos and videos, red hair and blond hair no longer granted naturally.

Spike still bleached his, still slicked it back unable to stop a habit of several life times.

He still turned when he caught a glimpse of red or blonde, still turned when he heard a nervous laugh or saw an eye patch, still turned when he saw the reflection of a man wearing spectacles, still glanced up when he heard someone talk about those winged creatures of the Christian God.

But the people were never his, no his people were long gone, no more than dust.

Part six: death.

When one lives long enough, they have to get used to death, used to burying friends and family. 

Have to get used to holding hands and hearing hearts fade into silence.

It wasn't easy, but it was routine by now.

He didn't know many names, didn't bother anymore, why should he when they would be gone soon enough.

But he'd sit with them as their lives came to their natural ends, he'd tell them stories until they fell asleep dreaming of the past that only one recalled.

He'd hold their wrinkled hands in his smooth one and he'd think on another he'd held just like this, he'd think on hearing that once strong heart slow and finally give out on him and he'd think about the tears he hadn't cried and the begging he hadn't done.

Part seven: graves/graveyards.

Graves would be the same for eternity, it was the one think that would never change, Spike knew.

Six feet by six feet and six feet down. 

He'd dug his fair share, more than his share probably, he still dug grave some days, gave him something to do.

He'd dug his Slayer's, dug Red's, the Watchers, placed what he could of Peaches with the Slayer, he'd dug the little Bit's and he'd dug his Boy's.

He had almost joined the Boy in it, he remembered but he hadn't, been called by one of the baby Slayers for help and by the time he'd returned the grave had been filled.

He couldn't remember where the graves were now, couldn't find them in the ever changing world he was still living in.

So many things changed over the years, sometimes he lost track of time, what use was time when it wouldn't change you?

He fingered the tiny little metal stake his Boy had given him one year, a celebration that no longer existed, it was one of the last things the Boy had given him.

Spike wished he could remember where their graves were.

Part eight: forgetting.

He didn't remember their names, they had been some of the first things to go.

Then the little things, Red's laugh, the way the Slayer's eyes would dance, the color of the Watcher's favorite tweed coat, his Boy's smile.

He lost them little by little, so slow that he didn't even notice that he couldn't recall the exact shade of red that Red's hair was or the type of blue in the Slayer's eyes.

And then he started to lose Peaches, started to forget the way he'd hide in the shadows, forget the way he'd given him his Boy, oh so long ago.

The worst of it was when he realized he couldn't remember the exact sound of his Boy's laugh, the pitch of it.

No, the worst of it when his Boy's face started to blur, when he lost the color of his eye.

The worst of it was when he forgot his Boy was missing an eye, forgot the rough feel of his Boy's touch.

It was the worst when he forgot he'd had a Boy at all.

The problem with immortality was the fact that you lived long enough to forget what was most important.

Spike never thought he'd wish he wasn't immortal.

He never thought he'd forget but he didn't remember promising not to, once, long ago, holding a wrinkled hand as a strong heart faded out into nothing.

\---

A/n: whoops, let's say that when Spike destroyed Sunnydale and returned he somehow became invulnerable to dying by stake and sun and there fore ends up outliving everyone even Angel.

He still helps out the baby Slayers but doesn't remember just why, not that there's much Slaying to do anymore since all the Hellmouths are gone, they end being sort of like historians.


End file.
